


Cherry Trees

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kimi muses on the nature of defeat in light of Michael's victory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherry Trees

The year ends.

Spring in Japan means cherry trees, nodding their heads low to the ground under the weight of the pink blossom as if the seasons have weighed too heavily. The slightest breeze, the tiniest drop of water rained from above, and the blossom scatters. The tiny connection between branch and flower breaks; the crucial bond that gave life to the petals now gone, and the blossoms spill across the asphalt, rolling and tumbling without purpose.

Mika once said to me: _Never lose your focus. It remains your constant in all things, no matter how blurred the circumstance. Hold onto your focus as you would your faith, and it shall carry you through._

I laughed at him for that well-meaning advice. We sat in the Monaco sun and enjoyed the view from the balcony, sipping drinks – me my mineral water, as befits a World Champion in waiting, and he with an ice-cold koskenkorva, as befits a retired driver with idle time on his hands.

I thought he was just being patronising. The year I entered F1, the media called me Mika's successor. He took me under his wing, as if I were a snow bunting blown off-course into a world where roosters crowed and peacocks spread their tails. I didn't need his help. I didn't want to listen to his advice. What good was it, when he was gifted his first win four years after he began racing, and when he won his first championship a year later?

Five years. Five years to be a true winner. It did not take me that long to establish myself. McLaren thought that I would fit with the pattern Mika had created. David thought that I would cede my place to him. I play both roles equally well, and keep my feelings hidden. All I want is to be the winner. I do not need the hand-me-downs of a countryman for whom I have so little respect.

Michael sized me up as a prospective partner at the end of last season. I rejected him; not because I know of his history with Mika, but because I do not care for him. It is true that I slept with him once – a strange experience, curiously devoid of any pleasure on both our parts. Both of us were thinking of others, and so it became a mechanical exercise, our bodies moving in ageless, ancient rhythm while our minds ran on into freefall. That day I shocked him by calling out a name he thought belonged to him alone. He treated me differently after that: watchful, almost wary. Only Michael would be so self-centred as to assume that the Mika I spoke of was Häkkinen, not Salo; but I let him continue to believe it. There was no harm to me, after all.

Michael was not the only driver to offer himself. I already knew that women will claw out each other's eyes for the chance to embrace glory. I was surprised by how many men will also debase themselves for a chance to ride towards a destiny they can never share. Such people are fools. They think fame will transfer itself by proximity, as if it is a glitter that can be rubbed off by physical contact.

But I do not share. What is mine, I keep.

I slept with Michael not in the search for ecstasy or even affection; I did it because I believe the measure of a man is in his actions. Michael is a clumsy lover, each movement laboriously learnt as if by rote, with no finesse and none of the skill that others ascribe to him. I find he is the same on track. If he is a champion, it is not through any raw ability. He races the way the cherry trees always flower at this time of year. There is no thought attached to it; no great desire or grand scheme. There is no feral instinct such as drives those like Jacques. Even Ralf has a motivation. With Michael there is nothing: just a vague sense that, if he stops doing this, then his life will be over.

The cherry trees do not know they live. They send out their roots and stretch out their branches, and rely on the weather and dozens of insects to keep them alive. They do not have to hunt in order to survive. Everything is brought to them, and instead of striving, of having purpose, they simply exist for the satisfaction of others who enjoy the beauty or form of such a tree.

Those who tend the cherry trees are careful to nurture it, to train it when it is weak, to cut back the dead wood and to guard against infection. Each year they sigh at the display of blossoms, but the moment is fleeting. Soon the petals furl, darkening at the edges, becoming weak and soft. Their brightness fades to brown, bruised stains across the delicate flesh. The flowers fall to the ground and are trampled. The tree is forgotten for another year, its needs held suspended until it buds again, until there is an audience awaiting the blooms.

And so today at Suzuka, as I stand looking at the swathes of pink blossom strewn across the path ahead of me, I cannot find it in my heart to regret my failure to win the championship. I still have another two years before I become like Mika. I am more hungry than he ever was, and I am not so easily led. I find nothing to admire in Michael, save for the failing grace of the fading blossom.

Others have said his time is ending, that they will be the one to best him. Only I know how close to rot he is; and no tree can survive the rot.

All around me, the crowds follow the example of the wind-blown flowers, and depart.

The year is ended.


End file.
